


The Pier

by andchaos



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Childhood Friends, Childhood Friends, Explicit Sexual Content, Fluff, M/M, Rimming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-22
Updated: 2015-05-22
Packaged: 2018-03-31 17:23:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,429
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3986491
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/andchaos/pseuds/andchaos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's always been this, them - this pier, this game, and just the two of them for miles.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Pier

**Author's Note:**

> birthday fic part 2 for [lily](http://romeanoff.tumblr.com)! the sad thing? this started out from a text about a 40s catws au and bloomed into this (entirely unrelated) freckle trash

I.

 

          Ian shoved Mickey to the side as they raced towards the docks, hoping to gain ground, but he was only halfway down the pier when he felt the twelve year old’s arms wrap around his legs. The tackle sent them both crashing to the ground; he skidded harshly across the wooden panels as Mickey jumped up, leaped over him, and finished the last few feet to the edge.

          “Jerk,” Ian muttered, brushing himself off as he got to his feet. He trudged over to his best friend and mimed pushing him over into the water, and Mickey laughed as he batted his hands away.

          “You’re such a sore loser,” said Mickey, dropping down to sit with his feet swinging over the edge.

          Ian stuck his tongue out but joined him anyway. “Wouldn’t have to be if you hadn’t cheated,” he said, crossing his arms with a pout.

          Mickey just rolled his eyes. “Baby,” he muttered.

          “I’m not a baby!” Ian’s chin jutted out as he puffed out his chest. “I’m almost eleven!”

          “Then buck up, kid.”

          Ian didn’t answer, turning away to look out over the water instead. His nails scratched idly at the wooden dock below him. He could feel Mickey’s eyes on his profile, but didn’t turn around to return the look.

          “C’mon, Ian,” Mickey tried again, in what sounded like exasperation but beneath which Ian could hear the hint of anxiousness.

          When Ian still didn’t say anything, Mickey dug his fingers into Ian’s ribs so that he looked over at him finally.

          “I have something that’ll make you forgive me,” said Mickey, tilting his head to the side with the ghost of a smile on his lips.

          Ian raised his eyebrows doubtfully. Mickey turned to dig around in the bag he’d been weirdly insistent on bringing with him, and a moment later turned back around, brandishing two bottles of beer. Ian’s irritation immediately evaporated as he grabbed for one.

          “No way! How’d you get these?”

          Mickey snorted. “You think I didn’t learn petty theft before my old man kicked the bucket?”

          Ian only grinned and hurried to untwist the cap. Mickey laughed when he struggled with it, but reached to undo it for him anyway. He handed it back, clinked his own bottle against it, and took a long sip. Ian took an experimental taste of his own, then pulled a face before he could stop himself.

          Since he knew Mickey had seen already, he made a retching noise for effect and said, “ _Ugh_. This is the worst thing I have ever tasted. You actually like this shit?”

          Mickey shrugged. “You get used to it,” he assured him. “It’s more fun when there’s a party, I guess.”

          “Why would a party make this less gross?”

          “I don’t know, man!” Mickey knocked his shoulder against Ian’s, hard. “People play, like, drinking games and stuff there. And there’s music and shit.”

          Ian looked out over the water, over the vast lake they had discovered a few years ago. Nobody ever seemed to be out here when they came by, and Ian had slowly begun to think of it as theirs.

          After a minute or two of thinking it over, he asked, “What kind of drinking games?”

          Mickey glanced at him like he was about as transparent as the lake’s surface, beneath which he could easily spot at least ten fish circling where their toes barely skimmed the water. He didn’t say anything, though, except, “I don’t know, just stuff to pass the time.”

          Ian let it sit for awhile, aware that Mickey probably wasn’t going to say much else about it. He wasn’t entirely surprised when Mickey changed the subject a few minutes later, even though he wasn’t really sure where he was going with the new topic either.

          “You know, I’m not sure you should be sitting out in the sun this long. You’re already, like, one giant freckle. Give it an hour; you’ll be red all over.”

          Ian laughed despite himself. “Go screw yourself, assface. I’m not _that_ freckly.”

          Mickey reached to ruffle his curly hair, and Ian set his beer down to wrestle Mickey’s arms away, pretending like he wasn’t drinking up the laughter coming more and more easily the harder Ian fought. Mickey finally got his hands in Ian’s hair and gave it a good tousle before he fisted one hand in it and brought his lips, light, to Ian’s. It wasn’t their very first kiss, but it was one of them. Mickey pulled away quickly, his smile brighter than ever.

          “You have so many freckles, I can’t even count that high,” he said. His voice was softer, but still playful.

          “It’s not my fault you dropped out of the fourth grade, Mick.”

          “Fuck you.” Mickey smiled around the lip of his beer. “It was the sixth grade, for your information. And I had to help Mom pay the bills.”

          “I know, I know. I was just kidding.”

          Ian leaned his head against Mickey’s shoulder, and they fell quiet again. After awhile, Mickey reached up and started tracing his finger across Ian’s cheekbone. Ian let him for a little bit, because the lake was beautiful and calm where he was looking over it, and the water was cool on his toes, and Mickey was very warm. Finally, though, he tilted his face towards Mickey’s.

          “What are you doing?” He hadn’t meant to whisper, but the question came out as barely a breath.

          Mickey trailed his finger towards Ian’s nose, then up the bridge and across his forehead. “Counting your freckles,” he said.

          “You can’t,” Ian protested. Mickey’s fingertips tickled his cheek.

          “Can too.”

          “Can _not_.”

          “I’ll bet you,” said Mickey, sounding a touch arrogant. “I bet I can count every freckle you have.”

          Ian sat up. He pulled his legs up from over the edge of the dock and crossed them beneath himself, spinning to face Mickey directly.

          “You’re on. What’s the bet?”

          Mickey scooted closer and reached around to snag Ian’s beer. Before Ian could protest, Mickey pressed the bottle back into his hand.

          “For every freckle I count, you take a drink.”

          Ian thought it over. Technically, the tiniest sip could count as a drink; besides, he was sure Mickey would tire of this game long before he would.

          “What do I get if you give up?”

          Mickey’s mouth twisted as he thought, his teeth worrying his bottom lip. Finally he snapped his fingers in apparent inspiration and excitedly said, “You can sleep over at my house!”

          Ian perked up at that; Mickey rarely let him over at all, and sleepovers were strictly forbidden. He wasn’t sure why, now that Terry was gone. Fiona always waved off his eager questioning with a simple, “His mom has a lot of friends over herself, since Terry died. So they probably don’t want you near that.” Ian wasn’t sure exactly who “they” encompassed, but either way, a sleepover was kind of a big deal. He had basically hit the jackpot.

          “Deal!” he said immediately, in case Mickey tried to change his mind. They shook on it.

          Mickey mimicked Ian’s position on the dock, and edged so close their knees were touching. He leaned close enough that Ian could make out his individual eyelashes. He wasn’t sure where he was supposed to look, so he settled on Mickey’s eyes. Mickey wasn’t looking at him back, though, too focused on his own finger as it tapped along each freckle on Ian’s face. Mickey counted aloud as he went along, and Ian kept his beer bottle close to his mouth so he could sip as Mickey counted.

          “I’m bored,” Ian complained after awhile. Mickey had finally moved on to the freckles on his neck, and his finger tickled where it trailed along his skin. He’d been listening to Mickey steadily count for what felt like an entire month, at least, and even though the beer was making him lightheaded in a pleasant way, he was getting antsy. “I want to go swimming.”

          “If you stop now, you have to buy me a milkshake.”

          “That wasn’t part of the bet!”

          “Well, it is now,” said Mickey absently. He was barely even paying attention, mostly focusing on his work.

          “But I don’t have any money,” Ian whined. He was trying very hard not to pout.

          “Then shut up. I’m almost at your arms.”

          Mickey gave up twenty minutes later, his hands warm on Ian’s chest but his lip jutting out unhappily, right before he pulled away completely and flopped onto his back. “I’m bored,” he declared, like Ian hadn’t said that less than half an hour ago.

          Ian laid down on his stomach, lying the opposite way so his face was inches from Mickey’s. “You owe me a sleepover,” he reminded him, just in case Mickey was going to try and pull out of the deal now.

          “You’re drunk,” said Mickey. He seemed to catch sight of the way Ian’s pout intensified at that, because he flapped his hands at him like he wanted him to calm down. “Relax, shithead. I know I do. But you owe me a milkshake.”

          “No I don’t! What the hell? You lost!”

          Mickey grinned and crawled forward, until their noses were brushing. His eyes were narrowed as though in challenge, although Ian couldn’t for the life of him think what Mickey might be trying to goad him to do. After a few seconds’ standoff, Mickey darted forward the last little bit and kissed Ian again.

          He was up on his feet a second later, laughing as he ran down the pier, back towards civilization. Ian was up in seconds to give chase.

          “Okay, fine,” Mickey called over his shoulder. “I ever teach you how to dine and dash?”

          Ian laughed and ran faster. He caught up to him where Mickey slowed down at the end of the pier, and they grinned to each other as they started the long walk towards their favorite diner.

 

 

 

 II.

 

          Ian sighed, his hands tightening in Mickey’s hair as he leaned up until his lips were level with Ian’s forehead. At eighteen, Mickey was no longer taller than him, and he had to perch awkwardly over Ian’s body to press his lips to the spot he was seeking. Ian tightened his hold on his boyfriend’s hair, his feet swinging off the dock and splashing up to his knees in the water below.

          “Thirty-two,” said Mickey, sitting back to hover over him. “Kiss or drink?”

          Ian thought it over for half a second before he decided he didn’t need another shot just yet. He released the whiskey bottle and used his newly free hand to run up under Mickey’s shirt, over his back.

          “Kiss,” he said decisively.

          Mickey’s responding smile was barely there before he leaned down to press his lips gently to Ian’s. He pulled away before Ian was anywhere near satisfied and shifted up to study his forehead again.

          “You know,” Mickey said conversationally as he tracked down another freckle, “this is getting less fair every time we do it. You get to do all the drinking, and it’s like you’re losing freckles by the day. Soon you’ll be all ghost white.”

          Ian pinched his side and Mickey laughed, kissed another spot on his forehead, and settled back down between his legs so he was laying more comfortably on top of him again.

          “Thirty-four,” he said. “Kiss or drink?”

          “Wait a sec. You were just at thirty-two.”

          Mickey tapped the spot where his lips had just been. “This looks like one, but if you look closely enough, it’s actually two. So, thirty-four. See? I can do simple math. Now do you want to kiss me or do you want some fuckin’ whiskey?”

          “Hmm,” he mused, because Mickey’s eyebrows knitted further together the longer he stalled. Finally he decided, “One of each.”

          Mickey reached for the liquor bottle and leaned back enough that Ian could prop himself up on his elbows. He opened his mouth so Mickey could pour in approximately a shot, then leaned up before the taste was all gone to kiss him. They usually kept the kisses light for the game, but this time Ian pressed his tongue into his boyfriend’s mouth; Mickey was right, it wasn’t fair for him to be the only drunk one.

          Mickey took a drink when they pulled apart anyway, and Ian laid back down so they could continue.

          He chose more kisses than shots as Mickey moved on from his face to his neck to his arms, and by the time Mickey pushed his shirt up and off, Ian was pleasantly drunk. They rarely got past this stage before they wound up abandoning the game to make out, and the farthest Mickey ever got was his hips this one time when Ian was fifteen, before he gave up and blew him. Ian knew how to time it by now so he was as drunk as he wanted to be by the time they were just about through.

          He was therefore confused when Mickey undid his jeans and pushed them down, because he seemed to still be playing, and they never got this far. He didn’t mind, though, and Mickey seemed to be perfectly content kissing down his thighs and then leaning up to peck his lips. After awhile, when he hadn’t even made it halfway to his knees yet, Mickey tugged on the top his boxers. Ian helped him get them off, and he smiled, figuring Mickey had relented and was going to provide some help to his half-hard cock. To his mild disappointment, Mickey just crawled back up to bury his face in his neck. He had an iron grip on Ian’s waist, and he tugged on Ian’s earlobe with his teeth before whispering, “Turn over.”

          Ian raised his eyebrows but did as told when Mickey backed off and slid back down his body. He wasn’t entirely sure what he expected, but he knew that he wasn’t entirely opposed when Mickey pressed his lips high up on the back of Ian’s thigh, almost in the junction of his ass.

          Mickey’s voice was low when he spoke. “Kiss or drink?”

          Ian had an idea of what he was supposed to choose, and honestly, he had no desire not to comply. “Kiss,” he said, a little breathlessly.

          Mickey didn’t move, or tell him to turn back around, or answer at all. Instead he spread Ian’s cheeks apart and licked a long, wet stripe over his hole.

          “Oh, _Jesus_.” Ian jerked back immediately, but met nothing but air. Mickey had already pulled away. “Oh Jesus oh Jesus oh Jesus.”

          “I take it you enjoyed that?” He could hear the definitive amused lilt to his boyfriend’s voice, but didn’t acknowledge it in favor of getting Mickey to do that again by any means necessary.

          “Mickey,” he whined, which between the whiskey and Mickey’s mouth, was about all he could say at the moment.

          Mickey ignored him. He pressed his lips to a new spot, this one directly on his ass, near the dip in his back, and then another one a little further down, and one more in the middle of the other cheek. “Kiss or drink?” he asked levelly when he was done.

          “ _Mickey_ —”

          “Kiss or drink?” he repeated, still calm. “Ian—”

          “Kiss, holy hell, kiss me.”

          Mickey spread him open again, and then his tongue was back, licking hot over his rim again and again. He teased him, his tongue a light pressure but never fully satisfying. This time when Ian pressed his ass back against Mickey’s face, though, Mickey did nothing but grasp his hips a little more tightly and pull him close as he finally pushed his tongue inside him.

          Ian stifled a moan when he entered him; his head was spinning slightly from the drink, and the entire world seemed narrowed down to Mickey’s mouth as he pulled his tongue out and sucked lightly on his rim before pressing inside again. He stopped to lick over his hole, fucked him one last time with his tongue, and then pulled away completely.

          Ian gasped involuntarily when he felt Mickey shift off of him. “Don’t—” he mumbled. “I don’t want—Why’d you stop?”

          “That was three,” said Mickey. Ian could hear the barely contained laughter in his voice and momentarily hated him for enjoying himself at a time like this. “One for each freckle. Right?”

          “Shit, you asshole.” He tried to sound angry, but he was pretty sure he mostly came off as pathetically desperate.

          “ _Right_?” Mickey pressed.

          “At least do more at a time then, dickface. I’m dying over here.”

          Mickey bit down on his cheek in retaliation, but Ian could feel him smirking before he pulled back. He kissed another freckle and didn’t even ask this time before diving back in, not bothering to tease before he pushed his tongue back inside him. Ian moaned, and when he could feel Mickey starting to pull out again, he reached back to twist a hand into his hair and keep him anchored there.

          “Don’t you dare,” he growled.

          He could feel Mickey laughing, but he didn’t care—a second later his tongue was thrusting back inside of him, and absolutely nothing else mattered.

          Mickey kept fucking him while Ian groaned and writhed around him, inhibitions loosened by the whiskey so much that he didn’t care at all how loud he was being or what noises he made. Mickey seemed spurred on by it, and he licked at him deeper, and Ian pressed further back against Mickey’s face. He wanted relief for his cock, admittedly, but he didn’t want to rub down on the hot wooden dock. Mickey pulled him closer as he reached down to touch himself, and he jerked himself off hard as Mickey ate him out, desperate to come already. Orgasms were always better drunk, as he had decided from his and Mickey’s many, many experiments on the matter.

          He came screaming Mickey’s name a few minutes later, and Mickey didn’t stop thrusting his tongue into him until he pulled his boxers up and collapsed forwards onto the dock. Ian flipped onto his back as Mickey sat up between his legs, wiping at his mouth and chin. For awhile they just breathed heavily and watched each other pant, and when his heartrate calmed, Ian lifted to his knees and reeled Mickey in by the waist. He pressed his lips to Mickey’s neck, and started mouthing at the skin there as he slipped his hands down to massage his ass. Mickey made a stifled noise and tugged at Ian’s hips until they were close enough for him to rock against Ian’s thigh.

          After awhile, Ian worked his hand inside Mickey’s jeans and kissed more deliberately at his neck, sucking hard at his skin while he jacked him fast. Mickey came quickly, pulling Ian up to moan heavily into his mouth as he did.

          They kissed lazily as Mickey came down. Ian stripped him slowly as they made out, and when Mickey pulled back to breathe, Ian pressed his lips once to his cheek and murmured, “It’s hot.”

          Mickey raised an eyebrow. “Okay?”

          “And we’re both sweating…” Ian pushed Mickey’s jeans fully down to his knees, his boxers as well. “…and I think we should cool off.”

          Mickey started laughing, now. “Oh, yeah?”

          Ian stood up, pulling on Mickey’s hands so that he joined him on his feet. Mickey stepped out of his pants and boxers, then pulled down Ian’s boxers until he was naked too. When he stood again, he pressed a light kiss to Ian’s lips before pulling out of his arms completely.

          “Last one in the water has to finish the whiskey!” Mickey yelled suddenly, spinning around.

          Ian shouted out as he lunged for him, and managed to wrap his arms around Mickey’s waist and heave him away from the edge of the dock. Mickey stumbled and nearly fell, giving Ian plenty of time to whirl around and dive headfirst into the lake. Mickey cannonballed in beside him, generating a huge splash that crashed over Ian’s head. He spluttered and laughed as Mickey surfaced, and jumped on him to shove him back under the water as Mickey pulled him hard by the waist. By the time they finally stopped wrestling and splashing each other, and once Mickey had chugged what remained of the handle, Ian had almost forgotten that he’d meant to start kissing Mickey’s freckles, too—starting with the one on his lip.

          Yeah, Ian was pretty sure that this was his favorite game ever.

**Author's Note:**

> [yoooo](http://absolutqueen.tumblr.com)


End file.
